


Private Devotions

by Verecunda



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Love Confessions, Lucius Lives!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: One year after not dying at the bridge, Lucius means to give thanks to God for his survival. But instead of prayer, he finds his mind full of other thoughts.
Relationships: Alexios Flavius Aquila/Lucius (Frontier Wolf)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Private Devotions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilverInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverInk/gifts).



> Happy New Year, m'dear! <3 This was meant to be a Yuletide treat, but I didn't have time to finish it then. I hope you won't mind a late gift. I just wanted to write a little Alexios/Lucius something!

That first winter in Belgica gave them all cause for reflection. As December darkened towards Midwinter and the sleet came driving in more keenly, it was impossible that the thoughts of those who had belonged to the old Third Ordo should not turn back across the year, marking out the days of the calendar by the events that had gone before. One year ago today, Praepositus Montanus had arrived in Castellum — one year ago today, they had feasted and laughed with the Chieftain’s party of the Votadini — one year ago today, the bay stallion was stolen, lighting the spark for all that had come after… 

It was there in Alexios’ face, in the moments when, sitting in the Mess of an evening, his gaze turned inward and his brows pinched together. It was there in Hilarion, in the uncharacteristic solemnity lying just behind his usual lazy smile. Lucius did not know how it showed itself in him, but he supposed it must, one way or another; for he was no less aware of it than the others. After all, it is hard for a man to escape the awareness that, almost a year ago to the day, he should have died.

The scar of the spear-thrust was still there, just below the collarbone, usually hidden beneath his scarf and the place where he kept his wolfskin pinned. In the usual way of things, it ought to have killed him — he had seen other men die from much lesser things — but Anthonius reckoned it must have been the great cold from his ducking in the river that had saved him, slowing his blood and keeping most of it safely in his veins, rather than pumping out of him before they had time to bind it up. And Lucius, having no clear memories of anything very much after they’d pulled him out of the water, did not feel in any position to gainsay this opinion. 

No clear memories — save one. And it was this memory that found him sitting alone in the Mess late on Midwinter Night, long after the others had parted to observe it in their own ways. 

All that day, the winds had fallen and the weather had gentled, so that the snow did not now come in great slashing barbs, but fell in great drifts of thick, feathery flakes. By the light of the single lamp at his elbow, he could see it building on the sills of the Mess-room windows outside, and wondered what the streets of the fort must look like by now. Not that it seemed to have had any ill effect upon the celebrations: even in here, he could clearly hear the throaty singing, and the pulsing of the deerskin drums, out where the parade-ground was tonight doing duty as the Dancing Ground, as the Attacotti welcomed the sun back up out of the dark. As for the rest—

“Oh! Lucius. What are you doing in here by yourself?”

Lucius turned from the window to see Alexios in the doorway, throwing the head of his wolfskin back. About his shoulders, the rough brindled fur had matted into thick spikes from the damp of the snow. The cold had put bright points of colour upon his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, and his eyes were bright. At the sight of him, Lucius’ heart gave a secret leap in his chest.

Hoping his face betrayed no sign of it, however, he merely replied, “Only waiting, sir. Waiting and thinking.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” At once, Alexios became very grave. Lucius had no need to wonder what was on his mind. He hadn’t seen the fight with Cunorix, for he had still been unconscious, hanging between life and death; but he had heard so many accounts from those who had, that sometimes he almost believed he had witnessed it with his own eyes.

Alexios crossed the room to sit, rather heavily, on the bench beside him. As he did, Lucius caught a faint, spicy waft of incense, which must have followed him from the little temple of Mithras outside the fort walls. He reached for the wine-jug on the table, asking as he did, “Is there anything left in it?”

“A little,” Lucius replied, and as Alexios poured what there was into a cup, he added, with a slow smile, “Though I reckon the best stuff must be out on the Dancing Ground by now.”

Alexios smiled. “No doubt.” He took a sip, sighed, then looked at him again. “And what about you, Lucius? I know you don’t go to celebrate the birth of the Christos until the morning, but why are you sitting in here alone?”

Lucius’ heart plunged. To be asked the question straight out, and by Alexios, of all people…

“It’s nothing, sir. I just wanted to sit up with my thoughts.” But he could tell at a glance that this was not enough to satisfy Alexios, so with a long, slow sigh, he confessed, “To tell the truth, sir, I have some doubts of going to the church in the morning.”

“Why?” asked Alexios, surprised.

“I went this morning,” he said, the words coming heavily, “to give thanks to God for saving me that day at the bridge. It was morning then, you remember? So it seemed right to go then. But when I got there, I found myself thinking, not about prayer, but about… other things.”

He swallowed, and stared down at the table, keeping his eyes trained on a certain dark knot in the wood so there could be no risk of their wandering and catching Alexios’. The memory came over him again, of sitting in that rough, limewashed little cell in the town just after morning muster. He had gone fully prepared to give all his love and gratitude, but even as he looked up at the painting of the Christos on the wall, flickering and wavering by the light of the candles ranged below it, all that came into his mind had been images of that day a year ago. Scattered shards of memory, as swift and broken and sharp as sleet: a confused rush of light and shadow, hurry and noise, pain and weariness. Yet, through it all, one thing stood out vividly: Alexios. Alexios’ frame against his, bracing him, holding him upright; Alexios’ hands, warm and firm and strong, holding him; Alexios’ low voice, murmuring encouragement in his ear. These things rose above all the others, along with the same thought he’d had then, the last clear thought before the darkness closed over him — that his sacrifice had been a good one, and if he was to die, he was content to die in Alexios’ arms.

It was well enough to remember these things, but not standing before God’s altar, when he should have been praying instead!

Bad enough when he was meant to be offering up thanks on his own behalf; but if he should find himself doing the same tomorrow morning, when his whole mind should be upon celebrating the birth of his Saviour… it would be impious and unworthy, and he found himself fairly dreading the prospect.

“Lucius?”

At the sound of Alexios’ voice, Lucius swallowed hard and forced himself to look up, to turn and meet his gaze. His heart was suddenly beating hard and fast, and the look of earnest concern in Alexios’ face was almost more than he could bear. All at once, he found himself torn between two desires: the first, to throw all to the wind and confess all to Alexios here and now; the second, to bury the thing as deeply as he could. He had no fear that Alexios would ridicule him for it, but there are some things, once spoken, that can never be forgotten; and even among the Frontier Wolves, there were still some things that were not quite proper.

Too late, he realised he had still not replied, and now Alexios’ frown had deepened. With a faint shade of hesitation, he said, “Lucius — we are of different faiths, you and I, but if something is troubling you that way, I would be willing to hear it. Mithras knows, I found it hard to pay much mind to the ceremonies tonight. My thoughts were all full of… well, full of last year.”

“It’s not a thing for a man to burden his Commander with,” said Lucius, woodenly.

At this, a flicker of laughter came into Alexios’ face. “Come, Lucius! Have you forgotten what unit this is? We’re the Frontier Wolves, not the bodyguard of the Eastern Emperor. After all we’ve been through together, do you think such formalities exist between us? I’d hope you counted me your friend, before ever you counted me as your Commander.”

“I do,” Lucius longed to reply. “Oh, Alexios, you know I do.” But that was much too dangerous. If he said that much, there was a very real danger that all the rest might come spilling out on its tail. But no other good reply came to him in its stead.

Seeing this, Alexios sat back, torn between amusement and exasperation. “I see I must prove myself, then. Very well. I had planned to wait till you returned from your worship in the morning, but I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you my news.”

Lucius blinked. “News, sir?”

“Yes. Did you see the rider come in this afternoon with the post? Well, among it was a letter from the headquarters at Treverorum. They have granted our joint leave.”

“Our joint leave?” He could not conceal his wonder.

“Yes! Now I can show you the farm, just as I said.”

He had indeed said, many times. While they convalesced together in the sick-block at Onnum, Alexios had spent many hours telling him of his family’s farm in its rolling Downland valley: the sprawling old farmhouse built by his ancestors, the fields and the sheepfolds, the vine-terraces and bee-skeps, the orchards and stables, sketching it in all its moods and aspects through the changing of the seasons. More than once, Lucius had been lulled to sleep by the images that Alexios’ words had conjured, as vivid as anything Virgil ever penned. Even when he had been at his weakest and most listless, and it had seemed that his wound would never heal, he had been sustained by Alexios’ promise that one day, they would both visit that old farm on the Downs, and he could see it for himself.

“I don’t know what to say, sir,” he said at last. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for such a gift.”

But Alexios shook his head. “Rather think of it as a repayment for the sacrifice of your Georgics back in Castellum, for I can’t help but think it must have been one of the sacrifices that made the gods smile on us upon our march south. Certainly I think there must have been the one that ensured your own survival.”

Lucius had never quite thought of it in that light before. If he had meant it as a sacrifice, he had certainly not meant it for himself alone, but for them all. Softly, he laughed.

“Now that you have said that, sir, I don’t see how I can avoid telling you what is in my heart.” When Alexios glanced a question at him, Lucius drew a breath and gathered his courage. This was a sacrifice of another kind, but all of a sudden it was one he dearly wished to make.

“When I went to the chapel this morning,” he said, “I went to pray, to give thanks to God for preserving my life that day at the bridge. But as I sat there, it came to me there was only one thing I remembered very clearly, and that was your hands holding me as I leaned against your knee. I felt them just as clearly as I did then, I heard your voice again, speaking to me. And the thought came into my mind, that it was not God’s love that brought me back from the brink of death, but my own — my love for you, sir.”

For a long time, it seemed, there was silence between them. But despite his earlier misgivings, Lucius realised he felt no embarrassment, only a strange, profound calm. Meeting Alexios’ eyes again, the look he saw there now was almost the same as the one they had shared in the old Sacellum, when he’d handed over his old Georgics to be added to the fire: understanding, acceptance — and, what was new, a deep, quiet joy.

“Lucius…”

Something in the sound of his name on Alexios’ lips pierced Lucius’ heart. Slim fingers brushed his wrist, moving gently upon his skin. His breath stilled — then there was movement, the rough fur of two wolfskins brushing together, and Alexios’ lips were pressed to his own — soft, so very soft, and sweet as wild honey-in-the-comb.

Before long, they were both curled up together in Alexios’ cot in the Commander’s sleeping-cell, deeply nested in striped blankets, with their wolfskins thrown across for added cover. Vaguely, Lucius was conscious that there was a chill in the air, about the eaves of the room, and a sharp breath of frost seeping in through a crack in the shutters; but within the sanctuary of their bedclothes there was only warmth. Lucius lay on his side, and Alexios curled about him, slim and strong, holding him as closely as he had a year ago. But now there was no pain or injury; merely a drowsy contentment.

“We’ll have to be very discreet, I suppose,” murmured Alexios, lips brushing lightly against Lucius’ shoulder as he spoke.

“Yes,” Lucius agreed, even as he sighed at the feeling. “I don’t expect any special favour, and I know you wouldn’t give any, but we shouldn’t flaunt it, all the same.”

“That’s true enough,” said Alexios, and Lucius heard the smile in his voice, “but I was really thinking that there will be no peace for us when Hilarion finds out. The gods alone know what he’ll try to convince me his silence is worth.”

Lucius felt a little dry smile of his own break out. “A jar of vintage Falernian, I reckon. Or a week’s leave in Colonia, all expenses paid out of the Numerus’ pay-chest.”

Alexios gave a soft laugh, his breath fanning warmly across Lucius’ cheek, and he curled more closely about him. “Speaking of leave, ours is not until the spring. But I’d much prefer to show you the farm then than at any other time. By then, the green will have returned to the Downs, and the apple trees will be in blossom.”

“And it will be the time for the lambing and the barley-sowing,” said Lucius, remembering all that Alexios had already told him. He reached out in the dark, found one of Alexios’ hands and clasped it. “It will be wonderful, I know it.”

Ensconced in soft, warm darkness, he could already feel himself slipping towards sleep, once more sinking into dreams of green hills and vine-terraces, of new green shoots breaking up through the frost, and lambs and calves standing up on ungainly legs in the fields. The shortest day had come and gone, and now the world would turn back toward the sun, and the cycles that governed life with. He, too, had been granted a second lease of life, and almost his last thought, before sleep over him completely, was that he _would_ go to the church in the morning. Whether it had been God’s love or his own that had brought him back from the brink of death, the wellspring was one and the same — just as it was, whether one saw the light of the sun as the Christos' blessing, or Mithras' — and as he lay there with Alexios’ arms warm about him, full of the sense of contentment and safety, he knew he had much to give thanks for.


End file.
